by Mukul Deva
“True. I’m sure you have told them to let you know when the job is done.”
“Of course. I’ll message you soon as I get their confirmation.”
“That’s great. Well done, Vishal.”
“Thanks. Now what about Verma? And my money?”
“I should have the money by morning.” Leon had decided he was not going to hand over a dime to Vishal till the rifles and guns were inside the stadium.
“Even with Fatima out of the picture?”
“Fatima was representing the client organization,” Leon lied. “There are others besides her. Our money is going nowhere.” Leon had every intention of reaching out to the SOB as soon as he was done here in India.
Leon heard the intermittent beep of another incoming call. “I have another call coming in. Let me call you back.” Wondering who was calling him at this ungodly hour, he accepted the new call.
“Sir ji, imagine my surprise when I saw you on television.”
The caller sounded familiar, but Leon couldn’t place him. “Who is this, please?”
“It is I, Om Chandra. The owner of the service apartment in Sarita Vihar.”
Leon knew the shit had hit the fan. Hard.
“I was saying, sir ji, I was so surprised to see you on television.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” Leon tried, though doubtful the bluff would work. It did not.
“Let’s not play games, Mr. Berman. Or should I say Mr. Binder?” Om’s tone hardened. “We both know the police alert is for you.”
Leon did not respond.
“Now the question is, why does the police want you badly enough to pay a million rupees.” Om paused dramatically. “And the bigger question is, how much would you pay for them not to find you?”
Leon waited him out, trying hard to think of the best way out of this.
I don’t need to go back to that apartment again. And I can dump the bugger’s car someplace where it will not be found for a couple of days.
Leon’s relief was short-lived.
“I know you must be thinking, why bother to pay anything?” Om Chandra continued, driving the final nail in the coffin, “so I thought I’d help you see the big picture. You see, that car you are driving is expensive. And given the number of car thefts in Delhi, it is fitted with a GPS tracker. That tracker tells me you are right now parked in Jorbagh and in the very same place as you were last night.” Om Chandra gave him a moment to assimilate that. “I’m not sure of the exact location, since I am a simple man and not very good with sophisticated technology, but then, I don’t really need to be, do I? I’m sure the police will figure it out.”
Leon knew Om Chandra had him by the short hairs; he needed Om to stay silent, at least till be was out of India. “What do you want?” he asked.
“What could I want, sir?” Om Chandra reverted to his oily tone. “I’m a simple man, with simple needs. But you know how children are … so expensive … always wanting this and that. And the school fees … don’t even remind me of them.” Chandra snickered. “Perhaps you’d like to make a small donation, which can help me take care of their needs?”
“How much?”
“Well, the cops are ready to pay a million rupees. Would two million not be a reasonable amount for me to look the other way?”
Two million rupees … about thirty thousand dollars.
Leon rapidly did the math. Doable. But he countered, “I don’t think I could raise that kind of money,”
“I would if I were you, sir ji.” Om’s tone was no longer pleasant. “I have no idea what you are up to, but it cannot be small change, not with that kind of reward.”
“I will need time.” Leon hedged, trying to buy some whilst he wrapped his head around this.
“Of course. I’m a reasonable man. You have till tomorrow eleven o’clock.”
Again Om’s tone brooked no discussion. Leon realized fighting the deadline would not be a smart idea. “Okay. Meet me tomorrow at…”
“At the apartment in Sarita Vihar,” Om Chandra completed his sentence. “Come alone. No hanky-panky, sahib. I promise you there will be no trouble as long as I get my money.”
But Leon suspected there would be trouble. There always was.
Damn!
Now he had two issues to resolve, Vishal Bhardwaj and Om Chandra.
Just when I thought I was out of the woods. This damn mission is jinxed.
Ten minutes later, with a plan clearer in his head, Leon called Vishal and told him he’d have his money ready by noon. “Why don’t you meet me at about thirteen hundred tomorrow?”
“Same place?”
“Same place.”
“That’s great.” Vishal sounded happy. “Oh! I’d like most of it in dollars.”
“I will do the best I can,” Leon answered noncommittally.
“And what about Verma? Given any thought to that?”
“Frankly, no. But let me sleep over it. I am sure we can find a solution.”
“I see.” But the worry was back in Vishal’s voice. Leon sensed he was on the verge of panic. “Don’t sleep on it too long. I don’t think he will hold out much longer. They haven’t allowed him to sleep a wink and someone is always at him.” Leon clicked his tongue moodily. “I am screwed if he talks.”
“Don’t worry. We will find a solution.” Leon murmured reassuringly. “Another thirty hours and it will all be over.” But even over the phone Leon could sense Vishal’s jumpiness. It transferred; Leon was equally uneasy when the call ended.
DECEMBER
26
ONE
Ravinder was unable to suppress a pang of guilt when he saw Kurup’s number flashing on his mobile, aware he had lost track of the assignment. Reluctantly he took the call.
“Deepest condolences, Ravinder. Really sorry about your wife.” Ravinder noticed this was the first time Kurup had used his first name and was touched. “I called yesterday, too, but your daughter said you were not to be disturbed.”
“Oh! I was…” Ravinder trailed off, not sure how to respond.
“I understand.” Kurup sounded concerned. “Please let us know if there is anything we can do to help.”
“I will. Thank you.”
An awkward silence followed. Ravinder was relieved when the call came to an end. He was also feeling terribly guilty. Though Kurup had not brought up the investigation, Ravinder was aware time had almost run out for the home team and of the possibly catastrophic consequences if Leon succeeded. Yet grief held him inert; he could not contemplate going back to the assignment that had claimed Simran’s life. The fact she had been dead against it made him feel worse.
There was a soft knock and Jasmine peeped in. “You up, Dad?”
“Come in, please.” Ravinder sat up.
“I thought I heard you talking. All well?”
Ravinder saw she was worried. He nodded. “That was Kurup, the NIA director.”
“And?” She looked even more worried.
“And nothing.” He shrugged, unwilling to share the guilt he was suffering; strangely it made him feel disloyal to Simran.
“How’re you feeling now?” She sat beside him, studying him closely.
“Better, thank you.”
“Good.” She gave him a hug. “Why don’t you get ready then? We need to go to the gurudwara sahib for the antim sanskar.”
Ravinder was marveling at Jasmine’s composure as he showered. He’d never seen her so collected before; it filled him with pride. Also sorrow that she had had to learn this lesson at such a terrible cost.
Emerging from the bath he headed for the bedroom to get dressed and then realized Simran was no longer there to lay out his clothes, something she had done every day for the twenty-eight years of their togetherness. Wiping away the tears that suddenly clouded his vision, Ravinder turned heavily to his cupboard and dug out a black turban, white sherwani, and churidar pajama. It took him a while; he had paid scant attention to his cupboards once he had surrendered them to
Simran when they got married. Usually not big on early morning conversation, Ravinder now missed Simran’s chatter.
Twenty minutes later he stood before the full-length mirror and checked everything was in order.
Turban. He tucked in an errant hair. Check.
Sherwani. He smoothened out the front. Check.
Pajama. Check.
Juttis. Check.
Wallet. He confirmed it had his credit cards and enough cash. Check.
All good.
Good. Jasmine needs me to be strong.
Taking a deep breath he headed out. His hand was raised to push open his bedroom door when the thought struck him.
There should be a checklist for people, too.
Heart. Strong and happy. Check.
Head. Clear and focused. Check.
He faltered, squeezing his eyes tightly to push back the sudden flash flood of tears. But it was a while before he felt in control enough to open the door.
Jasmine emerged from her room on cue. She took his arm and headed down. He could feel the tremor in her hands and knew she was on the brink, too.
TWO
Leon took stock of himself. Though a large, dark red welt remained on his right arm, the pain was almost gone. His stomach was feeling more settled, too; time, gallons of water, and the Norflox seemed to have done the trick. He flexed, taking deep breaths, and stretching his body. Barring that tight knot of tension in the pit of his stomach and the fact that he had not exercised the past few days, he felt fighting fit.
Then he took out the bag containing the three remaining sets of microphones, adaptors, and clickers that Nitin had weaponized for him. He transferred two sets to a well-worn, brown leather Hidesign wheelie bag, the kind professional speakers use: as ubiquitous at conferences as the black carry-on bags air crew use at airports.
From the final set he placed the clicker in his jacket pocket and the microphone and adaptor in a smaller Nike sling bag, which was already half filled with money.
Finally Leon packed all his belongings, barring the clothes he had worn when he had gone to rent the Sarita Vihar service apartment. Checking that he had gotten everything, he then donned a pair of surgical gloves and began to scrub the Jorbagh apartment clean. In the unlikely event the cops managed to get this far, Leon had no intention of gifting them with a set of his fingerprints. He was almost done when the text from Vishal came in.
All items have been correctly delivered.
Brimming with energy, Leon finished cleaning; things were falling into place nicely.
THREE
Vishal was surprised when Philip called.
“Please make sure Archana and you are in time for Mrs. Gill’s funeral.” He sounded rushed. “I may be slightly late and Saina is busy interrogating Verma. I want him constantly under pressure.”
“Sure, but…”
Philip cut him off. “Sorry, man, got to rush now. I think we finally have a break.”
“What kind of break?” Vishal was suddenly anxious.
But Philip rang off with a hurried “I will tell you when we meet.”
Vishal was fretting as he got ready.
What had Philip managed to get his hands on?
That bit about Saina keeping the heat on Verma also gnawed at him; he wondered how Verma was faring. Vishal wished he could rush to the office and give Verma a covert morale boost, but knew it was a terrible idea, and also there was no time. Texting Archana to meet him outside the Nanakpura gurudwara, he headed there.
FOUR
Jasmine felt Ravinder slow down as they left the car and walked into the Nanakpura gurudwara sahib. They were the first to arrive; but for the sewadars, (the helpers), there was no one else about. She was filled with reluctance; as though going through with the ceremony would make Simran’s death final. No longer deniable.
Jyot milee sang jyot reh-i-aa qhaal-daa.
(My light merges with the Supreme light, and my labors are over.)
The hymn rolling out of the gurudwara sahib, suffusing the area with its haunting beauty, greeted them as they entered the compound.
“Do you know why we Sikhs call it antim sanskar?” Jasmine noted the quaver in her father’s voice. She saw he was struggling to compose himself and needed to talk. “It is the celebration of the completion of life’s journey.” He seemed to be searching for words. “It is the merging of the soul with the Divine.” Another pause. “Death is our final destination. We should not lament or mourn it.”
“You are right, Dad. We should not. Mom is always going to be with us … in our hearts and our thoughts.” She saw him grow more morose and tightened her grip on his hands. “No. Don’t forget you’re on my watch now.” Jasmine tried to force a smile. Nearly succeeded.
“But of course, Princess.”
Jasmine felt her heart break as she saw him struggle to return her smile. “We have to be strong. Mom would have wanted that.”
Ravinder looked away. Silent. Finally looked back at her, nodded, and then gave her a long hug. So long Jasmine wished it would never end and she could stay safely hidden in his arms forever.
Then several cars drove up in quick succession. Soon a sea of relatives had surrounded them. Within no time the prayer hall was full; also flush with the soft but pervasive scent of incense and the melody of hymns, washing over them like balm.
Jasmine watched as the ceremony progressed and they bid farewell to Simran.
Friends. Relatives. Colleagues. Neighbors. People she had not met in years. Some not at all. But today they had all come together. To stand by them.
Jasmine felt as though she was hovering near the ceiling, breathing in the incense that wafted up. And she was watching everyone from up there, listening to them sing, seeing some cry and some remain stoic. Aunt Harmala, right in front, nearly hysterical; Jasmine knew how close the sisters had been. Her husband, looking distressed and somewhat embarrassed, was consoling her, without much success. Across the room were a string of Simran’s cousins and their spouses, all suitably somber. One of them, Jasmine struggled to remember his name, kept eying his watch. Rekha stood beside her, deeply concerned.
Jasmine felt her anxiety. She wished she could tell Rekha she would be okay. But she could not; Jasmine didn’t know if she would.
And despite everything Jasmine could not cry. She wanted to but could not. Frozen, she watched the ceremony slide by in slow motion. Acutely clear yet bereft of feelings.
Jasmine realized the ceremony was over only when people started drifting out of the prayer hall into the courtyard. Jasmine knew they would wait outside in the gurudwara sahib courtyard, to offer condolences to Ravinder and her.
When the prayer hall was empty she took Ravinder’s arm and led him outside, Rekha on his other arm. He moved as though catatonic, but his face was composed. Barring a murmured automatic response, when people came up and offered their condolences, Ravinder seemed oblivious.
Then a Mahindra Bolero jeep pulled up at the gate, an official vehicle complete with a red light on top and the Delhi Police logo on either side: WITH YOU, FOR YOU, ALWAYS. A familiar-looking man alighted. It took Jasmine a moment to place him: Philip Cherian, the task force officer who had spoken to her at the hospital.
She saw Philip halt, poised on the periphery. He surveyed the crowd, spotted Ravinder, and began to walk toward them. His purposeful stride was at odds with the solemnity of the occasion and serene ambience of the gurudwara sahib. Jasmine felt a pulse of alarm; she knew Philip was not here to offer condolences, but for something else. She also knew that whatever it was, she did not want her father to hear it.
Enough. He’s done enough and given enough. I don’t want Dad upset any more.
She was trying to decide whether to confront and stop Philip from speaking to her father or warn Ravinder to ignore him when she felt a tap on her arm.
“Jas, my parents want to talk to you,” Rekha murmured solicitously.
Though she did not want to leave Ravinder’s side, Jasmine relu
ctantly allowed Rekha to lead her to them. Rekha was not just her best friend, she was almost a sister, and Jasmine knew Rekha’s parents cared for her, too. Checking her impatience, Jasmine distractedly heard them out. Condolences. Meaningless words that did nothing to alleviate the pain. Yet needed to be said. Perhaps more by the person saying them than by the one they were said to.
A moment later, when she turned toward her father again, Philip was by his side. And Ravinder looked like death. Alarmed, she rushed to his side.
“They have caught the truck driver, a repeat offender called Kapil Choudhary.” Ravinder said to her, his voice a monotone. “He had been paid to hit your car.”
Jasmine felt as though someone had punched the air out of her lungs.
“Paid by a cop.” Ravinder’s face was a death mask. It stunned her. She had never seen him like this. “A damn cop! How could a cop stoop so low?”
“Dad.” He was scaring her.
“I’m going to find out who paid him.” She now felt the façade that had been holding him up crumble and his rage begin to peak. “And when I do…”
Jasmine felt death whisper past. “Dad!” She clutched his angrily flailing hand. The thought that Ravinder was getting back into the game terrified her. This deadly mission had already taken her mother’s life. The very thought that something could happen to her dad also was too awful to contemplate. “Please, Dad. Let it go.”
Jasmine felt her nail snap as it pressed into the metal band of Ravinder’s Rolex. But she felt no pain. Nothing.
FIVE
Leon was really irritated by the time he drew up outside the Sarita Vihar apartment. He had wanted to be early, but the traffic proved impossible and it was almost half past eleven. His dismay deepened when he let himself in and saw Om Chandra waiting for him inside the apartment. The first thing he noticed was the weapon in Om Chandra’s hand.
“Don’t mind this.” Om held up the country-made 12-gauge with the barrel sawn off. At that range, in the close confines of the living room, Leon knew it could cut him in half. “Just insurance, sir ji. You have nothing to worry about as long as you don’t try anything smart. All I want is my money.”